Keeping Up
by ShawMichael
Summary: It's a bit like running a race. Even if you're one step behind it still counts as a loss. - Another late night FrUK drabble? Maybe if you squint. Not as detailed, romantic , or long as the last story; please tell me if I'm getting their personalities right so if I'm not I can improve in future fics! Hope you enjoy it- Until next time. Note: As always this is also on Ao3


The faint sounds of an old man droning on about the principals of reality and mortality was accompanied by the sound of pen nibs being scratched across thin sheets of notebook paper piled up in unusually tall stacks and the murmuring of a collective mass of other people. The seminar was far from truly interesting to the two middle aged men currently enjoying their evening drinks on the balcony outside the large doors of the room, but it was still fairly amusing to them. How could something so serious be amusing one might question? Well, the answer was rather simple actually—these two men were not bound strictly by the laws of human reality nor were they mortal. They had already heard the same things debated a thousand times ranging from the ramblings of Roman philosophers to ranting of medieval monks and once more to the stately scholars of the 20th and 21st centuries. It was not anything they were not fully acquainted with and, if anything, they were having quite a lovely time mocking the dear old professor currently spitting on himself about what makes humans human and the whole shabang.

"Did you hear that one, _Angleterre_? I don't think I have ever heard a man try so hard not to start quoting the bible before!" Arthur Kirkland gave his drinking mate a sarcastically amused look, uncrossing his legs as he leaned forward and placed his hand palm down on the table.

"My, my! Francis you are one Hell of a godless man now aren't you?" The man opposite of him, a Francis Bonnefoy, simple chuckled into his cup of coffee at the statement. Blue eyes averted off into the still bustling streets of London, the Frenchman faintly smiled as he took a long drink of his refreshment.

"I do admit, hearing the old bat jabber about how the rise of crimes being cause of Chinese overpopulation and some other blather I tuned out is highly entertaining. I do question why you chose this spot of all places to have a relaxing evening to do paperwork. I damn well feel like wrenching my bloody hair out." An exaggerated hand movement was given to express Arthur's true abhorrence with the whole situation along with a roll of his eyes and a skewed expression of vague disgust.

"Oh now, _cher_, don't fret or such simple things—I had all but forgotten that this was scheduled if you want the truth! Just try and enjoy the little things as they come and they go. I am sure he will eventually drop dead from the lack of oxygen going to his poor little brain as is." Arthur almost snorted his drink at Francis' words and the man, pushing some of his own hair back behind his ear, gave a cheeky smile as Arthur wiped warm tea off his upper lip.

"Country of Love and Romance they say, ai? They'll be damned rolling in their graves if you keep up that kind of talk." An off handed wave was given as Francis mocked despair and hurt, eyebrows knit together and mouth pulled down in a forced frown.

"I will always blame you for how senile I have become _mon amour_. What a tender soul you have taken and turned to flint!"

"How dreadfully poetic of you."

"But- of course." Arthur set his tea aside as he tried not to smile too widely at the whole thing and instead opted to scowl imprudently until the urge to grin faded. Finally picking up the pen he had set aside at least three hours prior, the short-haired blond picked up a document he'd been putting off signing and scribbled his name across it in illegible and tightly looped chicken scratch for writing. As he was setting the paper down into the designated stack for the finished work, Arthur felt a rough nudge to his leg under the tab and jolted before realizing Francis has essentially kicked him. When the Englishman looked up he found that his French guest was looking away with a perfectly innocent look upon his face that somehow still had an air of smugness to it that made Arthur go a bit red in the ears with frustration.

"Your acting is terrible, Francis."

"_Quoi_? Whatever do you mean?" Another swift kick, not too hard but just enough force to where Arthur knew it was there, hit as Francis looked at the rather quickly reddening Brit from the corner of his eye. The action made the younger man's face break into an aggressive smile, one eyebrow dipped down and the other raised up.

"What acting? Don't play so daft, love. Do stop kicking me in the leg now; I am in no mood to play foots—"Arthur was cut off as Francis deftly managed to kick him right in the thigh, the path of his leg jostling the table ever so slightly and making Arthur almost flip the table when he went to stand up before failing quite spectacularly at the attempt and ended up flopping back into this seat awkwardly.

"You were saying?"

"Oh, that is it! You asked for it this time." A swift retaliation kick prompted a look of utter surprise to pop up on the Frenchman's face as he scooted back away from the table the second after Arthur's shoe made contact with his shin.

"Angleterre! Do not ruin the good fun, you crotchety old man!"

"Oh, yes, so _I'm_ the old man." The whole thing was being taken in surprisingly good humor considering on normal standards this type of behavior seemed to lead to full on fist fights between the two men. Arthur quickly caught a paper as it threatened to skitter off the table and go swooping its way down into the damp and crowded streets below. Francis simply watched as he ran a hand through his hair and pursed his lips as his voice took on a tone of irony.

"Oh _mon Dieu_—I'm far too beautiful to be an old man, don't you know?" Arthur slipped down in his chair a bit, tongue peeking out from between his teeth and lips as he stretched his leg to give an odd sideways kick to the other blonde's leg before laughing at his almost insulted look.

"Of course you are. You're as fresh as a summer noon at the horse stables!" Francis gave a leering smile back at Arthur for the remark before grabbing the man's ankle and giving it a nice yank. This forced the British man to brace himself on his chair as he was almost pulled right under the table.

"And you as an American beer, _cher_!" At once Arthur's face contorted into one that hinted he was rather grossed out by the thought. Once he had successfully gotten Francis to stop playfully attempting to tug him under the table, he retorted back with a blatant 'yuck' sound before speaking.

"Bollocks! There's isn't anything grosser than a bottle of American made beer—or American alcohol in general! No offense to Alfred obviously but his taste in liquor is piss." Francis actually threw his head back laughing at the other's response, fist banging into the table top as he tried to quiet back down.

"For once we are agreeing on something! Wait, let me stop and savor this moment; it is almost too good to be true."

"Oi, don't you go mocking me now. There's nothing better than a good old fashion home brewed glass of barley beer now don't you think?"

"Alas, there it goes. You know me, cher. I am a man of _refined_ taste—"

"Expensive taste."

"_Classy taste_!"

"So you'd like to think!" The bit of back and forth bantering was put to a rest as Francis picked up his coffee and finished off the last of it before waving over his hovering 'caretaker' to take the cup and refill it.

"Wine is the prince of all alcoholic beverages, Arthur. Your beer is more like a backwashed nobleman!"

"Look at you going all metaphorical on me now. Give it a rest! Beer, rum, bourbon, and whiskey are just as good as wine." Arthur snatched another set of papers up from his stack and started to scan over it. It was all in Cyrillic, most likely Ukrainian, and handwritten. It took him several moments to decipher it all before setting it aside to think about the proposition later.

"I will give your bourbon a shot. It is at least better than your whiskey." Was the outward musing from Francis as he rolled his neck and took up his own pen to carefully write out his signature in fancy lettering. It almost made Arthur cry over how pretentious the act was. Then again, who was he to condemn someone for being pretentious? He was not much of a humble man, he feared.

"Do tell me, Francis, what is wrong with my whiskey?"

"It is something I would not give to even the horses!"

"Would you rather go off and get some fruity drink with an umbrella in it then? Do tell me now so I can arrange it for next time."

"Do not be so brash, _amour_—You know I have always had a fondness for the little vibrant umbrellas."

"You're killing me here, Francis. Please!"

"Save your begging for later, Arthur." The quick slapping remark almost made Arthur blurt out in a strange bleat of amusement and embarrassment as Francis' caretaker returned with his refill of coffee and an extra cup of tea just in time to hear it all.

"You're just as quick to the whip as ever now aren't you." The green eyed blonde parried back sluggishly. Francis, who had lifted his cup already up to his lips, gave a simple arching of the brows as he muttered into his coffee smartly.

"I am simply trying to keep up with you, 'terre."

"Touché."


End file.
